We need a real estate attorney in the Bristol, Virginia area. If you know of someone you’d recommend, please reach me using the contact form.

We own two houses consisting of seven rental units. Over the years, we’ve lost several grand due to being unable to collect judgments we’ve won in court. Trust me, for a lady who clips coupons, it’s painful. But it’s all chump change now. Today we’ve entered into a Pacific Heights situation. I know many blog readers live in Bristol so give me a ring if you have any leads, OK?

I’m hoping to clean out my inbox this week and get to some blogging. Hang tight. Please let me know if you’re waiting for a reply but never hear from me. I answer all my email, but lately, some emails are disappearing into the abyss. It seems to happen more frequently to people with Yahoo accounts. …It just occurred to me that you wouldn’t be able to email me to tell me my email isn’t working, so leave a comment instead.

There are some questions that surface repeatedly, so I thought I’d take a minute to share them. Here they are with some of my answers.

Is your husband really a rocket scientist?
Truly. He programs the screens that engineers look at to launch the Atlas V. It seems pretty impressive, but Greg assures folks they’d be shocked if they knew exactly who is walking around with liquid nitrogen. Some payloads are Top Secret and some are just satellites, but either way, we’ve never seen where he works. Funny, right? For all we know, he could be sitting at Starbucks everyday trading stocks online and reading Mad magazine. But he wouldn’t do that. He’s not into comic books.

The reason you might not guess that he is an engineer is because he is really funny– and not in a dry, pocket-protector-sort-of-way. He’s also not very neat, so he defies the stereotype in many ways.

My kids get a very good science education here at home.

If your husband launches rockets, how will you do that in Kentucky?
About 18 months ago, Greg was offered a permanent job on the Atlas V project. He turned it down in favor of working tenuous, flexible (read: less paying) contracts so that we could move to the country and grow lima beans. He works for a small engineering firm on short-term projects. Nothing is certain; everything is contract-to-contract. When one ends, sometimes there is lag time. He’s worked as many as four jobs at once. It’s been a crazy life. But we did it for the chance to walk away one day from the rat race while the kids were still at home. At least, that was the plan before the housing bubble burst, stocks went down, and a lease-purchase agreement with [grrrr…] went nuclear.

Greg still accepts contracts at the Cape on the Atlas V and will continue so long as they need him. It’s our philosophy to make hay while the sun is shining. (That sums up all I know about farming.) The work won’t always be there. We’re preparing for the drought that may or may not come.

Why didn’t my comment appear?
It probably got caught in the spam folder. I don’t delete comments. My feelings don’t get hurt from drive-by assaults or passionate disagreements. Other people have different philosophies about that, and I support and respect what they want to do on their blogs. As for me, I don’t censor. I have time to write only occasionally, and I don’t want to spend it moderating discussion. My readers are intelligent, and they don’t need me to filter for them. I love it.

Can you write about x, y, and z?
“x” usually stands for a discussion of quiverfull theology. “y” usually stands for loneliness in motherhood. And “z” usually stands for hyperemesis and/or difficult pregnancies.

I have extensive experience with all of these things, and so it does seem like I’d talk about them more. I’ve blogged for over three years now, and I’ve never done the requisite birth control post—where I’ve been, where I’m at, and what I believe the Bible says about it. (Heh, my stats are low and I could use the boost.) I’ve held back about how a houseful of preschoolers can contribute to loneliness in women. And I am still very raw from my experience last year with a dangerous case of hyperemesis.

From the beginning, I’ve tried to talk about subjects I know. I’ve failed many times in that regard; feel free to point that out. There is a lot of chatter about anything, everything, and nothing. For many of these things, I am in a process. I find it is better to yammer on about things I know for sure. It is true that the process is also important, but I like to get a few steps ahead before blathering on about things I shouldn’t.

That said, it’s been a long time in coming, but I hope to write about those things soon.

Another angle is that my website is just a personal journal. It was never meant to instruct, teach, encourage, or inform. (Hey, I’ve got enough legal problems at the moment.) Sometimes it’s a side effect, but really, I think it is best to receive those things from people who know you and your needs. I’m not a counselor and I don’t play one on TV. Some moms need to get tough with their little tykes, especially the kind that bite and spit. Some moms need to show more mercy and grace to those sweet ones that Jesus died for. I can never know which category you’re in. I can surmise from lengthy stories, but there are always other dynamics. People are complicated.

I have a comment about something I read on your sideblog….
Later today I will start a permanent thread where you can talk about it. I will link it in the sidebar. Sound good?

Here is a link. I hope you enjoy it!
Thank you to everyone who keeps my sideblog interesting. My sideblog (the links in the sidebar under the heading, “Also Worth Visiting”) is the best feature of this site. I know all the men don’t visit here to gaggle over pictures of my two-year-old. The reason I have great links is because you send them in. Keep them coming.

When can we talk about baseball again?
OK, nobody really asked this, but I’m itching to tell you all about it.

McGregor is pitching and catching for Little League this season. He is also continuing on with Team COMBAT (usually center field and relief pitching), which is a competitive team that travels. They have been dominating in the tournaments, taking first place in the last two. I feel bad that we’re moving, because I think their team could go all the way in the next few years.

They were taking shots for their team sponsor, COMBAT. You think they’ll use it in an ad if the text is upside down?

Discussion on current links in the sideblog should happen here instead of on the most recent post. I hope this helps keep things straight. It’s not a perfect solution, but it’s better than how we’ve been doing it.

One of the neat things about our family is that we perpetually have a two-year-old in the house. Two-year-olds are great. Not only are they a lot of fun, but they also provide a ton of illustrations for life. In fact, my fifth child turns two-years-old today. We weren’t sure he’d survive this long with his propensity for eating bugs and jumping off high places, but he did. I’d like to wish him a “Happy Birthday!” but I’d also like a consolation prize for his stressed out parents.

The thing about two-year-olds is that you have to constantly be on your toes. They can be reckless and fearless. They push the boundaries, always on the lookout for a loophole or to see if Mom really means what she says.

I’ve often told one of my toddling children to stay in the family room. Here’s what they do. They go to the edge of the family room where the carpet meets the tile in the kitchen, and then they put their fingers, toes, and miscellaneous body parts on the line. They look to see if I’m watching. They weigh all their options. If I’m far enough away, they might put a scraggly toenail over the line and wait.

Christians are a lot like two-year-olds. They’ll read what the Bible says and then start looking for loopholes and lines. Instead of obeying the spirit of the command, they’ll look to see how much they can get away with before making a technical violation. Instead of just staying in the family room and enjoying it, they want to know what the rules should be if a meteor were to hit the house. It shouldn’t be this way.

The issue of contraception use among Christians is the same. We know that God thinks children are a blessing and a reward. We know that it is normative for married couples to produce children. We know that the world is anti-child and that God calls His people to a different standard. We know that abortificant means of avoiding children are wrong.

Because of these things, I’ve had eight pregnancies in the span of nine years already.

But as folks with straying, scraggly toenails, we also want to know where the line is. What is forbidden, what is required, and what is permissible due to our freedom in Christ? We know that we’re responsible to train our children up in the way they should go. We know that men ought to live with their wives in an understanding way, doing all they can to make sure that the one he is called to cherish isn’t crushed underneath a load that is too heavy for her to bear. We know that God’s commands—while difficult sometimes—are always freeing. We know that a man who doesn’t provide for his family is worse than an infidel. We know that our righteousness is because of Christ and not because of what we do. These things are also true.

The quiverfull movement (QF for short) is good for the support of its members. The culture has gone its own way off a cliff, but they’ve planted the flag. Raising a large family is difficult in our society. We do well to share strategies unique to the challenge. I’ve benefited from it. Where it strays course is when it assigns motives to those outside of it. “Selfish” and “not trusting God” are the catch phrases. I’m not willing to go there. There is not a Bible verse that allows us to do this to one another.

The Bible tells us, “Owe no man anything.” (Should we start an ONMA movement?) This command leaves us less wiggle room and also finds itself in the New Testament. The Bible talks about money a whole lot more than babies. Am I allowed to accuse a person of “not trusting God” if she owed a debt to someone? What about the person who is debt-free and funds the Great Commission because of it?

“Be fruitful” isn’t the trump verse of the Bible. If we were looking for the trump verse, it would have to be Jesus’ words to love God and love our neighbor. He already told us the main thing. (Question to myself: How well am I doing that?) How can we avoid one verse becoming the measuring stick of the condition of our hearts and the vehicle in which churches and groups are built upon?

The woman who has trusted God for the timing and spacing of her children does well. She ought to be praised. Where she fails is when she tells others exactly how they ought to do the same: all birth control is a sin. (A married woman who has produced a child has multiplied technically, were it about technicalities and not loving obedience to a good God.) Saying this isn’t postmodern, wherein one just picks out the verses they especially like and then tells everyone not to judge. The Bible doesn’t bind our consciences in this way, and so we shouldn’t do it to one another. We live with this tension all the time in Scripture. Circumstances don’t dictate theology, but yet we all make judgments and decisions based upon them. Women in China—where they forcefully abort your second child– have to decide in wisdom how to apply Scripture’s words.

Since I’m writing here to my dear friends who agree and disagree with me, it is only right that I am honest about my private thoughts. I’ve often wanted God to give me explicit instructions about my hyperemesis. Is it suffering for Jesus or for my own stupidity? What about the children I’m ignoring for almost a year while I’m pregnant? Can I assume they’ll be godly if left to themselves since I’m obeying the fruitful verse? How do I obey the dozens of admonitions to parent well when I’m not parenting during pregnancy? What about the deep darkness that accompanies nonstop vomiting? Does God have a plan for me? What is it? How can I know it? Does He care? How do I live out this tension?

We could play “Battle of the Verses” and sling it out. Or we could humble ourselves, asking God for wisdom in how to live out His Word. We could reason together without condescending. We could love one another, knowing that there really is a trump verse after all.

Some parents complain that their children fight too much. I’ve got a whole lot of complaints, but that’s not one of them. The oldest two go at it a little, while the younger group enjoys the bliss of youthful ignorance. Every family has their tone, and ours is sarcasm. Even so, they are quite gentle with their sarcastic jesting.

Our children often create pet names for one another. Some of them last, while most of the creative gestures fall by the wayside. There is one particular name for our #3 Kid that has stood the test of time. Her name? “Nina and Grampa Flowerhead Fidoo.” It’s a long story. That last word rhymes with “Achoo.” I can say her name really fast, too. She loves her name, and we love her. We call her “Fidoo” for short sometimes. It’s a term of endearment, and she is dear to all of us.

Perhaps you’re wondering, What ever happened to “Muffin”? But Fidoo loves her name and her place in the family which she belongs. We also call her “Banana Banana” on occasion. She smiles and we smile and wink back at her.

There was an elderly neighbor who used to call McGregor, my oldest son, “Mac.” He hated it. Now, the old man was just being friendly, but my son would grumble and mumble every time he said it. Fast forward a few years, and McGregor is playing competitive baseball. Coach taunts him on the mound, “Big Mac, come on, Big Mac, you got somethin’ for me?! Show me whatcha got, Big Mac.” All of the sudden, he loves it. Now we’re all allowed to call him “Big Mac.”

Over the years, I’ve heard children called all sorts of things. Some good, some bad. The key is context and atmosphere. Who is smiling and dishing it back? Who is not? Tone is everything. (If you’re married, you already know that.) When I tuck them in bed at night, I call them by their given name. I use their middle name after their first name when they’re in trouble. It’s what moms are supposed to do.

I try to temper my jesting when I write, not because I’m in a bad mood but because I’m not. I want to make sure the receiver knows there is a smile on my face and a twinkle in my eye. Without love, we are a “sounding brass and a clanging cymbal.” It is easier to catch flies with honey. You can get away with a whole lot more when people know they’re loved. Just ask Fidoo.

I’m 100% caught up on my email. It appears, though, that I’m still not getting all my mail. I’ve had the same email address for about seven years, so I’d rather not change it. Leave a comment if you wrote but never heard back. I probably never saw it. Thanks.

I like strategy games. Rook, Blokus, and Scrabble are examples. Some games are pure chance, and there is no fun in that. Candy Land and Chutes and Ladders? I play them with my children out of pure love because in real life, I hate those games. When you are battling to the death, I like to think that my winning had something to do with my technique instead of the fact that I drew the card with the Sparkle Princess near the finish line. (That’s a Candy Land reference.)

I used to think baseball was pretty simple. There’s a bunch of guys trying to hit a ball and run around some bases. But it’s so much more than that. I never cared for baseball until I understood it. There’s a game within a game, and strategy is as important as skill.

I would never have thought there’d be an occasion in baseball where a manager would allow runs to score on purpose, but there is. You have to play the rules to your advantage. You must save your best pitchers for the right games while observing the rest periods appropriately. There are even rules about the rules—which can get complicated—but that’s the fun of it.

Team COMBAT took home their third five-foot-high trophy this week. That’s three wins in a row against the best hand-picked teams around. They’re doing great. One nine-year-old on my son’s team even hit one out of the park. (Somebody tell me what’s in those hot dogs.) They’re a great team.

But my son still has this problem. They’re called The Red Raiders. I asked my son why he’s afraid of The Red Raiders. (This is beginning to sound like a Berenstain Bears story but it’s not.)

“Their pitcher picks off, Mom,” he says.

“So?”

“So, their pitcher picks off.”

“Don’t you think every nine-year-old kid is shaking in his cleats about [your team] Team COMBAT?” I ask.

And so, it doesn’t matter. They can win all day long, invoking the slaughter rule as easily as they unwrap their Hubba Bubba, but he doesn’t care. Have some confidence, kid. He’s still scared of The Red Raiders. Their pitcher picked off a kid leading off second base in one sly swoop many months ago, and he hasn’t forgotten it.

There are some things I’m anxious about too. Childbirth is one of them. I’ve faced it many times, but there’s nothing you can say to me to fix it. I’m scared of it and I’m not even facing it. I have compassion but not confidence.

I’m also tentative about moving out of a state I’ve never left. I’ve lived in Florida my entire life, and I’m worried I’ll hate to freeze. What if my blood can’t take it? What if this whole thing is a big mistake? What if nobody likes us and our house gets eaten by termites? (The former is more probable than the latter.)

While we have no right to walk around smacking our gum, likewise, we should not worry either. John Piper writes, “Anxiety shows that we are too close to the world and too far from God. So don’t be anxious—the world has nothing eternal to offer, and your loving heavenly Father knows your needs now and forever.” The way I faced my last birth was this: I clung to Jesus. When my strategy failed and I proved ill-suited to face it, I would tell Him all about it. Those were some long nights before the birth.

There will always be The Red Raiders out there. We will always be tempted to worry. It is my choice to coddle my worries or to hand them over.

Humble yourselves, therefore, under God’s mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time. Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you. I Peter 5:6-7

We have some magic now. Buzzz, crackle, pop–electricity! The drywall is back up and patched. We are ready for paint. The electric, plumbing, and HVAC are in the walls now, and so we’re ready for the fancy pants stuff: paint, flooring, trim, and cabinets. Yessss.

I forgot to say that we have gutters too.

If you ignore my son’s big head, you can see a good view of the kitchen and dining area below. It is a traditional Amish floorplan. To the right is the large open living room. Amish church services are held from home to home, so the house is built to accommodate this lifestyle. (Benches are typically brought in for the meetings.) My son is standing with his back to the kitchen area with the dining area in front of him. (Yes, that is a toilet. It’s been there for, oh, about two months now.) There is no formal dining room; life happens right near the food, as it should.

I am regretting my choice of red paint now that I see how big this laundry/mud room is. It is 20 x 12, which is bigger than my current 8 x 4 laundry hallway. There is a lot of red paint for the house. I was feeling a little free-spirited when I made my choices.

Not many people get a half bathroom in their basement sewing room, but that’s the way it worked out. Rats, right? Due to the path the plumber had to take, the pipes went right by my sewing room. For just a few dollars, I thought it was a good last minute change.

At the beginning of the new year, I saw a great question asked, “What have you changed your mind about?” Today I am going to write about some of the things I’ve changed my mind about. It was hard to think of answers for this until I asked myself to fill-in-the-blank: “I used to think ______.” After thinking of it this way, it became much easier to answer. Below are my thoughts.

1. I used to think that all kids had equal footing at the science fair. This is untrue. You can tell whose dad is an engineer and whose dad is a poet. When my kid won a Crazy Hat Contest with a working train chugging around the brim, I knew that as long as Greg had anything to do with it, the other kids were toast.

2. I used to think I was a good parent and that if I did things right, the children would do the same. I thought Monkey See-Monkey Do applied to my good behavior. Turns out, they yell at other bad drivers from the back seat but they don’t mimic how sweet I am to the checkout lady.

3. I used to think Michael Jackson was cool. My very first concert was to see the Jacksons on their 1984 Victory Tour. They sang Beat It, but due to some technical problem, they didn’t sing Thriller. If you are wondering what the very best Jackson song is, it is Billie Jean. It all went downhill from there, which admittedly, was a long way down.

4. I used to think that court judgments meant something–that if the court ordered a person to pay, they had to pay. I thought you could take a cop with you or something and turn him upside down to empty his pockets. Call the IRS. Get a lien. (Good luck if he hides all his assets.) Turns out, the thief can just decide not to pay, and it’ll cost you big bucks to collect on money you will never see. It’s called throwing bad money after bad money. But that’s all I’m going to say. If I talk about it, with my luck I’ll end up in jail for 90 years. In the meantime, the thief will continue living it up on my dime. Welcome to this life.

5. And so, as a follow up, I used to think life was fair.

6. I used to think if you were a good mom, you’d nurse your baby. (I was 21.) As it turns out, there are good moms who feed their babies from a bottle. You can do all sorts of uncrunchy behaviors and still raise God-fearing people.

7. I used to think economics was complicated. Nobody listened to me in 2005 when I said the housing bubble wasn’t sustainable because incomes and rents didn’t rise proportionately. It was too basic, too obvious. The sad part, though, is that I didn’t listen to me either. The moral of the story is that I’m dumb.

8. I used to think you get what you pay for. However, I tried out Zenni Optical, and for thirty bucks, I got rimless prescription glasses shipped to my door in about two weeks.

9. I used to think I’d be really happy with a babbling creek on my property. Turns out, I’m right. We bought our property during the worst drought in memory, and so we didn’t know we had running water. This video was taken last week. Take a look:

10. I used to think textbooks were bad and “living books” were good. I still think that, but turns out, I had to use Bob Jones DVD’s to save our homeschooling for the time being, and I like it. The kids enjoy it, too. I hope to do a complete review sometime.

11. I used to think in terms of black and white. Now that I’m older, I see in shades of gray but that doesn’t make me a relativist. The Bible talks a lot about wisdom and the spirit. There will always be people who foam at the mouth about their particular pet issue, and it is OK to just let them.

12. I used to think that it was more important to be right than to be liked. The problem with this is that if you’re annoying, being right won’t get you far. (There are exceptions.) Nobody will listen to you and what good is that? Don’t let the messenger distract from the message and all that. Be kind.

13. I used to think that a person needed a lot of friends. Just one loyal friend is hard to find, so count your blessings if you find him/her.

In yesterday’s sermon, my husband told the story about his speeding ticket. He was returning home from our farm earlier this month, taking a route through Chattanooga, TN. The speed limit suddenly changed to 35 mph, and he didn’t see it. A cop was waiting in the area to pull him over.

While my husband waited for his $58 speeding ticket to be written, the police officer gave him a lecture on safe driving. He listened politely while thinking, I’ve been driving longer than you’ve been alive… It’s funny, of course, to be lectured by a 20-year-old kid with a gun on his waist.

A similar situation happened to me at the hospital. It’s actually happened twice, but I will just tell about the most recent example. I’d just delivered my sixth baby. I was cozy in my bed and nursing her. A lactation consultant came in to see if I need any advice. I thanked her for her work—yea for women who help other women with this sometimes difficult process—but declined any help. I mentioned that I was an experienced nursing mother and that the topic is one I’m well-read on. “I’m all good,” I said, “but thank you so much for your offer. Oh, and hey, do you want some hospital Jell-O?”

She wouldn’t leave. She insisted on knowing my schedule. She wanted to know about the baby’s diapers. She wanted to see the latch. I obliged to be friendly, and I even peppered my answers with some weird breastfeeding trivia.

She came back the next day and the next. She also called me after I arrived home. (I was not flagged for anything; this is really just a case of standard operating procedure.) After all these exchanges, I finally asked the whippersnapper if she was a mother herself. She was not.

In the two cases I mentioned above, the lecturer had some knowledge but lacked experience. It made the medicine more difficult to swallow, even if it happened to be the right prescription. The flip side is also true.

For instance, I’ve happened upon mega-moms with tons of nursing experience. Breastfeeding came easy for them, and so they haven’t needed to research the subject in any great depth. Young moms have asked for advice and have been given the wrong answer. The thinking is, “Hey, it worked for me. It will work for you.” You know, eat some oatmeal and call me in the morning.

I’m not saying you need to be a retired rocket scientist before you teach third grade science. In fact, let me digress here and tell you about my maternity care. I’ve had 3 different male obstetricians, 1 female obstetrician, 2 Certified Nurse Midwives, and 1 lay midwife. Without a doubt, each of the male obstetricians had the best bedside manner. Men obviously do not have any personal experience in these matters. (I know you will email me to tell me my experience is exceptional. Ready. Go!) The male obstetricians were the most competent and caring. Plus, they all appreciated my very good jokes, and this is important. There were no snippy snide comments from the men and also no drama. Trust me, I definitely prefer a female for my care (um, hello), but I haven’t had great luck with that.

So there’s my standard disclaimer that there are exceptions. My observation for all it’s worth is this: wisdom is a combination of experience and knowledge. Experience is good. Knowledge is good. But when you combine the two, ba-da-bing, it’s a very good thing.